


The Prince’s Knight

by Cocohorse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Awkward Crush, Book 2: Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Denial of Feelings, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Growing Apart, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), POV Severus Snape, Severus Snape-centric, Time Skips, Young Severus Snape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25405705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cocohorse/pseuds/Cocohorse
Summary: Gilderoy Lockhart.It sounded like the name of a knight in a fairytale. How fitting, then, that he was protecting Snape.Snape suppressed a gag.-After escaping another embarrassment caused by his bullies, Severus Snape is found and befriended by a boy named Gilderoy Lockhart. Together, they start a secret dueling club, learn spells likeObliviate, and confront Lily, the Marauders, and their feelings for each other.
Relationships: Gilderoy Lockhart & Severus Snape, Gilderoy Lockhart/Severus Snape, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape
Comments: 60
Kudos: 124





	1. Meeting

The large oak tree at the edge of Hogwarts’ fields was the only place where Snape could collect himself. There, he could usually sit alone and be unbothered by other students. It especially was ideal for when he needed to escape from the taunts and barbed remarks of a certain group of boys.

Today was one of these times. Just ten minutes ago, he’d been humiliated in Flying class. After breaking free from the crowded throng of his laughing peers, he’d barreled his way to the top of the fields. He was curled under the oak tree now, his arms wrapped around his knees and his eyes squeezed shut.

Preoccupied by the noises of his own sobs, Snape didn’t notice the cracking of branches of someone approaching him.

“Hello?”

Snape opened his watering eyes to see a boy standing curiously over him. For a moment, he saw James’ face, hovering treacherously with lips pulled into a twisted grin. Like cornered prey, he instinctively began to back into the tree.

“Hi, um. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you!”

That was not James’ voice. It was much lighter and cheerier. It broke Snape from his jittery daze, and he slowly refocused his eyes on the boy speaking to him.

The boy looked a year or two younger than Snape, who was a fifth-year. He had strangely bright, inquisitive blue eyes and a round, unblemished face. Locks of the most golden hair fell in soft, short waves. His clothes, the blue robes of a Ravenclaw, were noticeably cleaner and nicer than those of most students, who tended to frequently soil them and less frequently wash them.

What struck Snape the most, however, was the boy’s disarmingly warm and easy smile. It wasn’t perfect, no — an awkward silver set of braces gleamed among white teeth — but nonetheless it felt oddly comforting.

“I saw you leave your class,” the boy stated. “Are you alright?”

This surprise visitor and question nearly shocked and embarrassed Snape out of his crying. He turned his head away, unable to meet the boy’s inquisitive gaze, and nodded instead of replying.

The boy wavered, unsure of what to say to Snape’s lack of a response.

“What do you want?” Snape sniffled, growing agitated with the presence of a stranger.

“I saw what happened,” said the boy, after a momentary hesitation. “I was in the courtyard when I saw someone knock you off your broom. Are you hurt?”

Snape self-consciously drew a sleeve to wipe his snotty nose and cover his red, blotchy face.

“No,” he said, his mouth muffled in the thick fabric of his robe. “I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

“Your trousers are torn,” gasped the boy, pointing at one of Snape’s legs, where a bare, bruised knee poked out. “Now, don’t worry about that. I have several extra pairs of trousers that I wouldn’t mind giving away, if you need any.”

Snape didn’t have an extra pair of trousers, but what did it matter? His entire wardrobe, nay his entire appearance, was in disarray. A ripped pair of trousers wouldn’t make a difference in how others thought of him. Frankly, he was taken aback by the effrontery of the boy’s suggestion, and even offended by the fact that he had _several extra_ trousers.

Grumbling, Snape dragged himself onto his feet until he was towering several inches taller than the boy. In the back of his head, he knew how ridiculous he looked with red eyes and a runny nose, but he didn’t care anymore, not in front of this impertinent boy. He shot down an angry glower.

“Listen,” he hissed. “I just want to be alone. I don’t need your help or sympathy or, for Merlin’s sake, your trousers. Go back to whatever hole or crevice you came from, and just _let me be in peace_.”

Snape caught a glimpse of the boy’s smile faltering as he shouldered past him to leave. He felt a tinge contrite, but he had more pressing concerns than the sensitivity of a stranger’s feelings.

For starters, there was a chorus of recognizable male voices coming from over a nearby hill, freezing Snape in his tracks. It took a wild moment for him to register what was about to happen. Flight then seized him.

He broke into a run across the field, plowing a straight line toward the farthest place he could see. His worn black shoes slid through the wet grass, and his breaths fell sharp and ragged. Behind him, he heard a loud crashing and rushing of feet. Increasing panic stirred in his pounding chest.

“Severus — Severus, wait for me!”

Snape whipped around to see the boy stumbling a few paces behind him. The blonde was red-faced and panting as he narrowly managed to cross over a branch. How did he know —

“Here, come,” urged the boy, scrambling over and grabbing Snape’s hand. Further behind the boy were the Marauders gathering at the top of the hill, like vultures ready to feed. Had they already spotted Snape?

He didn’t have time to wonder, because the boy was pulling the two of them in the direction of the school.

They hurried to the base of Ravenclaw Tower. There, they climbed up its spiral staircase, all the way up to the fifth floor. Upon arriving at the top, Snape, breathless, noticed how tightly he was holding the Ravenclaw boy’s hand and immediately let go.

The two of them stood in front of a wooden door, with no doorknob and only a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. The boy murmured a few indiscernible words, and the door swung open.

Luckily, there was no one else in the Ravenclaw Common Room when they entered. It was the middle of the day, so most students were either in class or at lunch. The room itself was wide, open, and filled with sunlight. Tastefully plush furniture in various shades of Ravenclaw blue gave the room a formal yet inviting atmosphere.

Now that they were safe and alone, Snape took the opportunity to catch his breath over the closest sofa.

“That was rather fun, wasn’t it?” said the boy. “I haven’t had that much excitement since last week’s _Reducio_ demonstration in Charms class!”

After taking a moment to compose himself, Snape’s voice took a critical tone. “This isn’t a game.”

“No, no, of course not,” the boy quickly corrected. “Anyways, they won’t be able to reach you here. Unless they know the password, or know a willing Ravenclaw, but I highly doubt that. We’re good at keeping secrets, but we do make exceptions for the right reasons.” He smiled, unmistakably proud of himself.

“Speaking of secrets,” Snape barked impatiently, “I literally have never met you until today, and yet” — he waved his hands for dramatic effect — “here I am. Who _are_ you? How do you know me?”

“I haven’t introduced myself? Right, sorry!” Despite the apology, the boy didn’t look at all ashamed and even appeared to relish the attention. Unfazed, he shot out a hand.

“Gilderoy Lockhart,” he said, calmly, sweetly. “Third-year, Ravenclaw. Pleased to be of acquaintance.”

The way his name flowed off his curled tongue was impressively smooth. _Gilderoy Lockhart._ It sounded like the name of a knight in a fairytale. How fitting, then, that he was protecting Snape. Snape suppressed a gag.

Snape gingerly took his hand and shook it, despite having held it just minutes ago. “Severus Snape. Fifth-year, Slytherin. As you probably already know.” He said his last sentence with a deliberate slowness.

Lockhart took the cue. “I’ve seen you around school a few times,” he explained, with a gentle laugh. “You’re not as invisible as you think you are, Severus Snape.”

“Obviously not,” growled Snape. “Otherwise people would leave me alone.” He rubbed his arm, feeling self-conscious of his tattered clothes and disheveled hair, in contrast to Lockhart’s fine robes and radiant complexion.

“Oh, no,” Lockhart interjected. “I mean, I’ve seen you, after hearing that you’re pretty good at spells and potions.”

Snape started. “Really?”

“Sure. I’ve heard some folks talking about you. They say you know a lot. Is it true that you’ve created your own spells and curses?”

Did people say that? What else did they say? “Yes,” he said tentatively.

“Incredible. You should be proud of yourself,” he said admiringly. “Most students still can’t get the hang of casting spells, much less creating them. Myself included. I’m a natural writer with a memory of an elephant, so I’m rather good at exams and papers. But something about the _physicality_ of magic eludes me.”

“Clearly, you’re a Ravenclaw.”

“Yes, but sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to have been sorted into another House. Slytherin, perhaps. Do you ever wonder?”

“No.” Yes, he did. What if he had been sorted into Gryffindor, with Lily? But that meant he would’ve been stuck with the Marauders. The thought of living with them was sickening. “I’m content with where I am,” he admitted, and that was true.

“Slytherins, so proud.” Lockhart looked at him with interest and awe. “Well, let’s get you new trousers, yes? Can’t have you looking like you just fought a werewolf.”

Too tired to protest and protect his dignity (besides, he was already here, and new clothes never hurt anybody), Snape trudged after Lockhart to the Ravenclaw dormitories. A marble statue of Rowena Ravenclaw stood watch beside the dormitories’ entrance, its cold gaze making the Slytherin squirm.

Lockhart ushered them into one of the dorms, being careful to close the door behind them. Like the Common Room, the dorm was airy, bright, and clean.

“My room,” Lockhart declared, despite Snape being able to see the belongings of others. He plopped himself down onto a lush and neatly made bed, replete with fluffy decorative pillows. The other empty beds in the room, while also nice, didn’t look at all as lavish as his. He watched proudly as Snape surveyed the room’s contents, swinging his legs back and forth over the side of his bed.

Snape’s attention was caught by a shining window next to him. He hovered over to it, gawking at the spectacular vantage point the room had over the school’s grounds. He could see Black Lake, the Forbidden Forest, everything. It sent a chill up his spine.

“Isn’t it a fantastic view?” came Lockhart’s pleasant voice from beside him. “Nothing like the Slytherin dormitories, I bet.”

“Not really,” said Snape, a little defensively.

Lockhart took no notice. “Now, over here.” He skipped over to the other side of his bed and threw open the doors of his wardrobe.

Wandering over, Snape was immediately stunned by what he saw. Within the wardrobe was a tremendously tall and wide display of all sorts of garments and apparels, in every color and pattern he could imagine. Every item was painstakingly hung and folded away by color, and somehow it all fit. Lockhart’s wardrobe was truly a sartorial kaleidoscope. Snape didn’t know whether to be disgusted or impressed by this miracle of an abomination.

“How did you manage to fit an entire boutique in here?”

“Time and a skillful touch,” Lockhart said, in a self-congratulatory sort of way. “And this isn’t even all of it. Do you want to see my hair and skin-care products?”

Snape knew that he himself never had a penchant for fashion, but still he questioned: _Were boys their age supposed to be using those things?_ He glanced sideways at Lockhart, noting how the curls on his head bounced as he excitedly spoke.

“Not necessarily.”

The curls stopped bouncing.

“You’re right,” Lockhart said, adopting a serious tone to mask his disappointment. “No need to get distracted. Let’s see here.” He moved to the very end of his color spectrum of clothes (and there was a very wide range), and rifled through the dark gray school-issued trousers for a minute.

“I think this shall work,” he finally said, closing the wardrobe’s doors. He held up a pair of trousers that looked identical to the ones they were wearing, minus the stains and the rips. “Most of mine are fitted, but these are a little too long, and I haven’t had the chance to take them to the tailor. Here.” He placed them into Snape’s surprised hands. “Keep them. They’ll fit you better than me.”

Snape ran a cursory gaze over the trousers. It felt soft and brand-new under his fingers. With a flutter of his stomach, he realized that it was the nicest thing anyone had given him in what felt like ages. He looked up to see Lockhart’s beaming face, clearly taking pleasure from seeing the Slytherin marvel over his gift.

“What do you think?” chirped the blonde.

“It’s — it’s very nice. Thank you.”

The smile on Lockhart’s face grew larger, braces winking in the sunlight. “You’re very much welcome, Severus!”

Snape blinked a couple times, trying to process everything that was happening. Why was Lockhart being so nice to him? Maybe he was rich enough that he didn’t care about arbitrary objects like trousers. Or maybe this was something else, and he expected something in return?

Why was Snape even in a Ravenclaw dorm, holding someone else’s trousers?

“Where are you from?” Snape blurted.

Lockhart seemed delighted to be asked a question about himself. “I was born in Belfast, but grew up in London. They’re lovely during the spring and summer. Have you been?”

Snape shook his head. “What about your family?”

“I have a mother, a father, and two older sisters.” He took a deep breath and stared into Snape’s eyes with unexpected intensity. “And I trust you not to tell our peers this, but — but my father’s a Muggle. My sisters are Squibs. Only my mother and I possess magic.” Lockhart fidgeted with his tie in embarrassment. “We were all so excited when I got admitted to Hogwarts. I have to make them proud, you see. You won’t tell anyone, won’t you, Severus?”

Snape, trying to hide his astonishment, shook his head again.

“Good. And what about yourself?”

“I’m from Cokeworth,” Snape replied. “I have two parents and no siblings.”

Lockhart gave him a small nod and smile. It was the sort of politely bored and sympathetic reaction that Snape was used to. People either didn’t know Cokeworth or knew of its stigmas. But that was fine; Snape didn’t want to talk more about the subject, either. It was a relief that Lockhart didn’t press further, as some students did.

“Well, thanks for these,” said Snape, glancing down at the trousers again. “I should be heading out.”

“Oh, of course.” If Snape wasn’t mistaken, Lockhart appeared slightly disheartened. “Do you have class? Lunch?”

“I’m just going back to my room to put these away and study.”

“Ah, very good for you. Stay on top of those grades.”

Snape followed him back out into the Common Room, toward the main door.

“Say, Severus,” said Lockhart, while opening the door, “do you want to go to the Quidditch tryouts with me tomorrow?”

“Huh?”

“I’m going to try out for the Ravenclaw team. I could use your support when I make it on.”

“I —” Snape quickly stepped into the hallway, a nervous hand scratching at the back of his head. “I, uh, have a Transfigurations exam tomorrow. That’s why I’m studying.”

“Tryouts start at two o’clock,” Lockhart said helpfully. “If your exam is earlier than that, maybe you can make it.”

“I’ll see.”

“Great.” Lockhart gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Well, good luck on your exam. Hopefully those mean boys are gone for good. Oh, and let me know if those trousers don’t fit.”

“I will.”

“It was very nice meeting you, Severus.”

“You as well, Lockhart.”

“Friends call me Gilderoy,” he said sweetly. “So, please, Gilderoy.”

_Friends_.

“Sure, Gilderoy.” Snape’s heart pounded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And there was that warm, charming smile. The smile that had impressed upon Snape when they first met, and would stick with him for years to come.

“See you tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> This is my first time writing a Harry Potter fic, and disclaimer: all my current knowledge is from the first five movies, Hogwarts Mystery, and just Tumblr osmosis. So please correct me if I there’s anything wrong, including the British slang.
> 
> The only thing I purposely changed are their ages. They’re technically supposed to be four years apart, but that age gap isn’t very conducive to this fic, haha.
> 
> This is also my first real attempt at writing a multi-chaptered fic, so please bear with me. I have plenty of fun things planned, so I hope you stick around! 
> 
> Feedback is much-appreciated!


	2. Dueling Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape and Lockhart start a secret dueling club.

In the weeks that followed, Snape caught glimpses of Lockhart in between classes.

The boy seemed to know everyone. He’d wander up to a pair of older Hufflepuffs with a cordial greeting, approach Professors McGonagall or Flitwick with trifling questions, even scamper up to the ever-irascible Mr. Filch to pet his cat (or, at least, attempt to). 

At first, Snape had the impression that Lockhart, with apparently multitudes of friends and acquaintances, was unusually popular. But sometimes, when Snape spotted Lockhart lingering in the halls or courtyards with other people, a few things stood out.

There never seemed to be a mutual conversation between Lockhart and other people. Whenever Lockhart spoke, often and for long periods, his listener’s eyes eventually shifted from polite interest, to gradual boredom, to inevitable irritation. And whenever someone else spoke, almost always directed to anyone else but the blonde, Lockhart stared longingly, open-mouthed, ready to leap into the next opening in the conversation. Sometimes he’d get in a few words, but judging by others’ reactions, his commentary was likely not substantive nor relevant to the ongoing conversation. Nonetheless, at the end of every interaction, he would throw his head back and laugh, as if enjoying an inside joke or witty remark of his. 

While Lockhart certainly didn’t refrain from making his presence known during passing periods, mealtime was another matter. Mealtime was when everybody sat in their established friend groups. As far as Snape could tell, while eating at the other end of the Great Hall, Lockhart didn’t have any. The boy sat alone, slowly picking away at a plate of eggs and sausages, as if waiting for someone to turn to him and say hello.

Not that this lack of company particularly hampered Lockhart’s efforts to garner attention. He created great, big shows out of receiving a letter (“Oh, for _me_?”), from none other than his parents (“How considerate they are to write to me! But they simply don’t understand just how _busy_ I am!”). Sometimes he even received large, splendidly wrapped parcels of items — an emerald green cape with delicate golden trim, or a pair of earmuffs made of pure white Puffskein fur — that successfully drew the incredulity and envy of some students.

Snape observed all these occurrences with a mixture of rapt curiosity and amusement. There was something admittedly enthralling about the blonde’s boyish antics. But Snape also felt empathy. As a fellow social outsider, he was unfortunately familiar with being excluded and derided for his eccentricities.

Occasionally Snape sat with (or, more accurately, by) other Slytherins, like Avery and Mulciber, during shared classes and meals. Sometimes he crossed paths with Lily, and they caught up. But talking to her now wasn’t the same as their first years at Hogwarts together; she continually expressed her growing disdain with his company and his fascination with Dark Arts.

So he, the perpetual wanderer and loner, preferred to roam the school grounds by himself, able to do whatever he pleased. How many countless hours he passed in the library, searching for arcane incantations, with dog-eared books as his company — or out in the fields, gathering plants for his potions, with the open skies and winds as his listeners. Some of his favorite moments at school were the ones where he could lose himself among the passages of an old, forgotten book, or just sit and gaze out at the waters of the lake rippling against the shores — forgetting, just for a moment, everything else in the world.

But quietly, Snape craved a certain kind of attention, one that made him feel valued and good. He took pride in his professors’ commendations of his skilled potion-making. He treasured Lily’s compliments of his grades and accomplishments.

And he appreciated what he took as Lockhart’s undisguised admiration, his unselfish generosity, and his unconditional friendship.

They _were_ friends, right?

If they were, then they merely existed in the form of mere happenstance. For example, sometimes they would bump into each other as one entered and another left the Great Hall. Lockhart, unflaggingly cheery, would exclaim, “Fancy seeing you here, Severus!” — to which Snape would flatly reply, “We all go here for supper,” before returning a smile. Then Lockhart, oblivious to the students trying to push past, would stand there and recount his entire week’s events. Initially, Snape would stay to humor the Ravenclaw, but somehow he found himself attentively listening to the latest season of men’s clothing or the most recent celebrity scandal. It certainly was a change of pace to the monotony of learning how to do _Lumos Maxima_ for the upteenth time.

Snape blamed his newfound tolerance — he shockingly didn’t tear out his own hair over tales of tasteless teenage romances — on Lockhart’s rather personable mannerisms. Despite the less-than-thrilling contents of his stories, Lockhart had a knack with little gestures. The blonde smiled at Snape, patted Snape’s arm, nodded and gave perfectly timed reactions to Snape’s comments. It was a gift, along with his flair for gesticulations and vocal inflections. Lockhart could probably recite the _Numerology and Grammatica_ textbook and make it riveting.

Maybe they were friends. Lockhart was nothing but friendly around him. Besides, the boy even practically declared they were friends when they first met.

Still, maybe these were empty gestures, without real intent. Promises of friendship that Lockhart offered to every new person he met, giving only a beguiling smile and nothing else.

Maybe Snape wasn’t special.

Snape continued to harbor such doubts over the authenticity of their friendship, especially as his encounters with Lockhart remained infrequent — a stark contrast to his recent run-ins with James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew.

The four boys’ jeers and jabs at him were nothing new, but they were unusually more persistent over the past month. Instead of leaving Snape alone after he’d round a corner or exit the room, they had begun to give chase. It was awful, trying to evade them by ducking into the boys’ bathrooms or hurrying away to the Slytherin Dungeon. They had essentially managed to make their existences even more insufferable.

This morning, sitting in the Great Hall, Snape reached his limit.

He had barely taken a bite of his toast when he heard hushed snickers and coughs coming from nowhere else but the Gryffindor table.

“ _Slime-ball._ ”

“ _Ugly git._ ”

He tried to wash down the toast with some orange juice.

“ _Idiot_.”

The juice slipped back down his glass.

He was tired and hungry. Dark gray circles hung underneath his weary eyes, thanks to a recent flurry of quizzes and exams. Even his skin appeared more pallid than usual.

He whipped around to meet four pairs of eyes already fixed on him.

“I can’t even have a simple breakfast without being disturbed by you imbeciles, can I?” spat Snape, vitriol dripping from his words. “Let me have one morning to myself, and bugger _off_.”

A chorus of _oooh_ ’s.

“Really?” said Peter. “You gonna make us?”

“Yeah, you and what friends?” said Sirius, pretending to cast his gaze around the room. “Oh, nobody.”

He was met with laughter and hoots. 

“I have friends.”

“Your mum doesn’t count,” snorted Remus, who then high-fived Sirius.

Snape thought of his Slytherin peers, Lockhart, and — 

“Lily’s my friend,” Snape said.

The boys’ laughter slightly subsided. 

“You’re delusional,” said James, his tone harsher than the others’. “You know, she doesn’t really like you.”

Snape, holding a fork, gripped it tighter. “She does.”

“She pities you,” James said. “She thinks you’re weak.”

“Th-that’s not true.”

“Sn-Sn-Snivellus,” snickered Peter.

“That she pities you or that you’re weak?” said James. “That’s why she hangs around you. Why else would anyone want to be with someone foul and nasty like you?”

Snape’s knuckles on the fork were white. “I don’t need _pity_.” His voice was small, restrained, trying to bury his hurt and anger. “I’m _not_ weak.”

“Then prove it.” James rose to his feet. “Come and prove it.”

Snape’s fork dropped on his plate with a clang. He stood up, a hunched and looming black figure, and turned around to face the four of them. They were watching him, waiting for him to act.

He heard the surrounding conversations going quiet as he and James, both standing at their tables, stared loathsomely at each other.

“So?” James challenged. Narrowed eyes gleamed from behind the Gryffindor’s round glasses.

Snape’s hand was frozen over the wand in his pocket. The gazes of the entire Great Hall bore into him. He suddenly felt tiny. 

_I’m not foul or nasty_ , he had almost wanted to say. But he wasn’t all too sure.

Damned if he did, damned if he didn’t. Fresh anger surged in his blood. His fingers wrapped around his wand. He might as well — 

“Severus! Oh, I’ve found you!”

Lockhart’s sole voice, high-pitched and chipper as ever, rang out in the still hall.

Everyone’s attention immediately flew over to the blonde boy skipping up to Snape.

“It’s your turn to tend to the Mandrakes today, Severus,” Lockhart announced loudly. He tugged on Snape’s robe like a fretful mother to her child. “Hurry up, Professor Sprout is waiting for you.”

“Oh,” was all Snape could manage.

“It’s a very pressing matter,” he urged, and he looked up at Snape with an innocent smile. “I’m not interrupting anything important, am I?”

“No,” Snape said quickly, before James could respond.

“Excellent.” Lockhart swiveled around to meet the four older Gryffindors, their expressions painted with surprise and confusion. “My deepest apologies, but I must steal my friend from you. Herbology doesn’t wait, I’m sure you understand.” His head swiftly bowed and sprung back up. “Enjoy the rest of your meals!”

Lockhart then took Snape’s wrist and proceeded to drag the Slytherin out of the Great Hall.

James spluttered something nonsensical. His friends sat frozen and shocked into speechlessness. The rest of the hall, thoroughly entertained by the turbulent series of events, broke out into a swarm of whispers and questions and giggles.

Snape’s head was swimming as Lockhart took them down some corridors. Even in the midst of someone else throwing a scene, Lockhart, in typical fashion, had to burst in and one-up it. And judging by the mirthful look on the third-year’s face, he had definitely enjoyed it.

“What are you _doing_?” Snape snatched his wrist away from Lockhart.

“Stopping you from making a big mistake,” Lockhart replied matter-of-factly, continuing to walk in stride. He produced something from his robes and held it out in his palm. “Apple?”

“You don’t need to keep giving me things and rescuing me.” He pushed away Lockhart’s hand.

“Then don’t keep getting into trouble.” Lockhart held it out again, undeterred by rejection.

“I wasn’t even the one who started it,” growled Snape. “I can also take care of myself without your assistance.” He grudgingly took the apple, prompting a relieved look from the Ravenclaw.

“And tell me,” Lockhart lightly asked, “what were you planning to do, against four people?” 

Snape didn’t respond, sourly eating. 

They reached the grounds outside of the school. The autumn morning air was a brisk cold, and big gray clouds slowly rolled across the sky. Some students milled around, chatting and studying and breathing out white wisps of air. 

The two of them continued to walk in silence, save for Snape’s chewing, until they found themselves alone in a small grove of orange-colored trees, not too far away from the school. They could still hear faint voices coming from down below the grove’s overlook.

“How do you know James and the lot of them?” Lockhart finally asked.

“Met them my first year,” muttered Snape, hands shoved into his pockets and head cast down. He had dropped the remnants of his apple and was half-heartedly kicking leaves over it. “They haven’t left me alone since then.”

“Why’s that?”

“They say that I’m strange. Or that I’m a slimy Slytherin. It only gets worse whenever I try to tell on them.” Snape stomped on some leaves, crushing them into the dirt. “Immature idiots.”

Lockhart seemed bothered. “And what have they done to you?”

Snape stopped, staring at a beetle crawling from under blades of dying grass. “They’ve taunted me. Hexed me. Torn up my homework.” He spoke slowly and lowly, as if each admission replayed an unpleasant memory inside of him. “They’ve made my years at Hogwarts miserable.”

“Why, that’s absolutely wrong!”

Lockhart’s shout jolted Snape’s eyes up.

“They think they’re _so_ _cool_ ,” huffed an indignant Lockhart. “I pass them in the halls, and they never look where they’re going. Did you know that they scuffed my favorite shoes? In my favorite color, lilac, no less. Absolute monsters.”

Snape was both affronted and amused by the frivolous comparison. He snorted.

“Oh, because they’re so cool and popular, they think that they can trot around campus, mistreating everybody without consequences. But they’re wrong.”

The slightly cold change in Lockhart’s tone gave Snape pause.

“You were planning on using a spell back there, weren’t you? Maybe _Flipendo_ , or perhaps _Immobulus_?” hummed Lockhart. “If you really want to fight, you have to know how to do it properly.”

Snape was flummoxed by this display of observation and shrewdness. “Excuse me?” 

“There’s a proper way of doing everything, at the right time, at the right place. Fighting is the same. I don’t condone violence, but I am a believer in self-defense.”

“You just told me not to get in trouble.”

“You only get into trouble if you lose,” Lockhart clarified helpfully, turning his chin up. “Or if a professor catches you. Then you lose House points, which, seeing as we’re technically rivals, isn’t a problem for me. Have you ever dueled?”

“Dueled?”

“As in formal combat between two individuals using only magic. A much more tasteful and respectful way of settling matters, as opposed to rough-and-tumble fighting, if you ask me.”

“I _know_ what it is. And it’s _forbidden_ at Hogwarts. No, I haven’t, obviously.” Snape’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

“Perhaps” — Lockhart’s grin grew and his voice lowered conspiratorially — “dueling could help you gain some valuable combat experience?”

“I don’t need experience,” scoffed Snape. “I know _plenty_ of hexes and curses, trust me. More than you’ve learned and probably will ever learn in your seven years here. I can protect myself if I really need to, but it’s not worth getting expelled for.”

“Reading is not the same as doing,” Lockhart argued.

“How rash of you to assume that I haven’t been doing them.”

“Have you really?” Lockhart’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Outside of class, you’ve used dark magic?”

“Occasionally. It’s nothing, really.”

“But it is! Tell me, have you used these spells on others?”

Snape frowned. “I have used your basic disarming and defensive charms on others. Some jinxes, too, but nothing more serious or harmful than that. I’m interested in the Dark Arts from a purely pragmatic perspective. There are many practical uses for such powerful magic, not just those malicious in nature.”

A look of awe crossed Lockhart’s face. Snape felt a flicker of embarrassment.

“I’ve never done anything like that,” marveled Lockhart.

“Perhaps for the better.” Snape couldn’t imagine the innocuous and inelegant Lockhart purposely using magic to harm anybody; if he did, he’d probably end up hurting himself instead.

“Still, I’d say there’s much room for improvement for you. Tying someone’s shoelaces together, or turning their wand into a snake, is rather elementary and unsophisticated, isn’t it? Those silly incantations only work because of convenience and the element of surprise, and they don’t actually take into account an opponent with his own repertoire of spells.” The Ravenclaw tutted. “So I say take it up a notch, actually _try_ some man-to-man combat through dueling. _Use_ what you’ve learned in real practice.”

 _Repertoire?_ Snape remained always surprised by Lockhart’s artful command of the English language. It made the boy seem older and wiser, and only added to his unnecessary surplus of charm. “Why dueling, though? I’ve no aspirations to join the All-England Wizarding Dueling Competition.”

“Now _that’s_ a grand idea,” said Lockhart, flashing an illuminating smile. “Dueling is a sport, dear Severus. And like with any other sport, there are techniques and strategies that you can practice and become good at. With dueling, you can actually put your skills to good use. The next time one of those trolls tries to hex you, you’ll know just how to react, defend, and predict their next move. And in proper form, too!”

Lockhart made a compelling case. Dueling did seem rather fun. And Snape had always wanted to test and practice his magic with somebody else. But he still had qualms: dueling was grounds for expulsion, for starters.

“I’m not going to actually _duel_ anyone,” protested Snape.

“Maybe not them. Not until you have to, anyways. But now, let’s see if you’re as good as they really say.” In a single, smooth flourish, Lockhart withdrew his wand.

Snape started. He took a step back. “On you?”

“Who else? You won’t be fighting a tree. I hope not, at least.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Lockhart laughed. “You’d think I’d let you?” 

“Fine.” He’d happily show the cheeky boy. He took out his wand and pointed it at Lockhart.

“ _Aqua Eructo_!”

A bright blue light emanated from Snape’s wand, and a jet of water rushed out. He flicked his wand upwards, aiming just above Lockhart’s head, and let go. With a loud splash, the water fell on the boy below.

Now it was Snape’s turn to laugh. 

“Merlin! My hair! My clothes!” cried Lockhart, clutching his own head in despair. His hair had lost its natural waviness and was now plastered across his forehead. His robes, too, were soaked and hung limply from his gawky frame.

“How’s that?” called Snape, as inoffensively as possible.

Lockhart was shaking his arms and legs, spraying droplets everywhere like a wet dog. “Not bad. Okay. Quite good, actually,” he grumbled. “But you’re doing it all wrong.”

Snape’s smirk dropped into a scowl.

“Dueling is not a brawl, Severus. It has _etiquettes_ to ensure control and dignity.”

Lockhart trudged over to Snape, wet loafers squishing in the grass. He stopped just a couple of feet in front of him and cleared his throat:

“First rule of dueling: Always begin by bowing before your opponent.” 

Snape followed Lockhart’s motions: standing straight, holding his wand up, dropping it to his side, and then bending into a courteous bow.

“Well done,” praised Lockhart when they stood back up again. “Second rule of dueling: Always take twenty paces from your opponent.” 

They turned around and began to walk in opposite directions.

_… 18, 19, 20._

They turned around again, facing each other across a wide, open stretch of grass and fallen leaves.

“Third and final rule of dueling: Always count to three before firing your spell.” Lockhart positioned himself into a tight combative stance and brandished his cherry oak wand like a sword. “After three. One.”

Snape moved into position and focused his eyes against the overcast skies.

“Two.”

He could almost feel the magic coursing through the fibers of his wand.

“Three.”

Snape jerked his wand forward. “ _Ex-pelliarmus_!”

Lockhart slashed helplessly at the air with his wand, his jumbled incantation cut short by a propulsion of red light that hit him square in the chest. His wand shot out his hand as he was thrown backwards into the air. He crashed into the back of a tree with a sharp gasp, and then crumpled into his wet robes.

_Shit._

Snape nearly stumbled over his own shoes while running over.

“Are you all right?” he frantically asked, grabbing Lockhart’s slumped shoulders.

For once, Lockhart was rendered speechless. His blue eyes were blown open and were staring up at Snape with an unreadable look — was he in pain? Awe? Fear?

“Please say something.”

“Yes, yes, never better,” Lockhart replied, visibly feigning composure. He shrugged Snape off and brushed away the leaves and grass on himself as if they were mere flecks of dust. “Well — that’ll give James a taste of the poison he’s been brewing.”

Snape took Lockhart’s hands — soft, sweaty, shaking — and helped him up. “Why didn’t you use a defense spell?”

“I tried.”

The defeat in Lockhart’s voice made Snape’s stomach crawl. He thought for a moment before quietly saying, “Would you like me to teach you how?” 

“Really? Would you, really?”

“Like you said” — Snape tried to find the right words for what he was about to propose — “I could use some… ‘valuable combat experience.’ So, we could practice and, er, help each other.”

There was a pause. “You want to _duel_?”

Snape felt his ears grow warm. “Yes.”

“With _me_?”

“Yes.”

Snape was wondering whether it was too late to change his mind when Lockhart hugged him.

“We’ll have so much fun!” Lockhart sang, wrapping himself around the stunned Slytherin. “It’ll be _our_ thing. Our _own_ dueling club!”

“Get your muddy hands off of me,” Snape irritably said, prying Lockhart off like a thorn in his side. “You have to keep it a secret. We’ll get expelled if anyone finds out. I swear to you, I’ll curse you if that happens. Got that?”

Lockhart nodded, looking unworried. Which made Snape worry.

“Okay,” Snape said anyways. “Good.”

“So” — Lockhart bounced on his heels, unable to contain his excitement — “will you teach me that spell now?” 

“Not when you look like you just miserably lost to a Whomping Willow.”

“But, _Severus_ —”

“No amount of jumping up and down is going to change my mind. We can meet again next week. It’ll give us some time to prepare. Maybe you can brush up on your spells before then.”

Lockhart seemed to settle with that answer, albeit reluctantly from the pout on his face.

They gathered their things and made sure to leave the grove without any suspicious traces of their activities. They then began making their way down the hill and back to the school. A chilly wind blew at their hair and clothes as they walked, and their fingertips were becoming pale and numb.

It wasn’t long until Lockhart, still bearing the effects of _Aqua Eructo_ , complained again.

“Good heavens, what’s the incantation for the quick-drying charm? My mind’s drawing a blank while my arse is freezing off.”

Snape said nothing as he took off his robe and hung it around Lockhart’s shoulders.

“Oh — thank you, Severus.” The charmer was charmed. He hugged the robe close, embracing its warmth.

Lockhart was quick to frustrate and quick to placate. He was an amalgamation of many colorful ideas and words, easily readable yet an enigma all the same. He was peculiar. He was fascinating.

Snape continued walking and drew his arms across his chest. “How do you know so much about dueling?” 

“My mother told me about it, and it caught my interest.” Lockhart trotted along, gazing thoughtfully at the distant horizon. He was calm, mollified, and happy to talk about a topic he knew: himself. “It’s quite a fun sport to read about and watch, if you’re lucky to attend a competition. I attended a couple when I was younger. But I’ve never had the chance to actually do it.”

“I see. So, just like Quidditch.”

Lockhart’s cheeks, already rosy from the cold, brightened further. “Now, don’t bring that up,” he said, walking faster and avoiding Snape’s smug smile. “You’ve already humiliated me enough today.”

With a chuckle, Snape easily kept up with the shorter boy. He was finding out that he liked flustering Lockhart.

“You saw me nearly catch the Snitch! You saw, right?”

“It was a good distance away.” 

“I should lend you a pair of my glasses,” said Lockhart, exasperated. “Had it gone the other way, I’d be at Quidditch practice right now.”

“Alas, you’re here instead.” _With me._

They stopped at the base of the hill. Their clothes fluttered in the wind.

“Let me tell you something, Severus,” said Lockhart, with sudden earnestness. He turned to Snape. “You were the only friend of mine who came to the Quidditch tryouts.”

There was a softness in his voice and eyes as he spoke, a real layer of hurt and gratitude underlying the usual veil of bravado.

Snape found himself taken off-guard in these unwonted moments of vulnerability. He became silent.

“Me giving you my trousers — they look splendid on you, by the way — and inviting you to the tryouts were mere pleasantries. Gestures, if you will. Didn’t really matter whether or not you accepted them. People, well — they tend to accept my gifts, but less so my invitations. But you still did.”

Lockhart gave a small, deflated laugh.

“This may sound silly, but I get the sense that people don’t actually care about me. Because I’m too average, ordinary, _boring_. That’s why you’re so fortunate, Severus. I wish I had an ounce of your innate talents and abilities.”

How could that be, when Snape — the strange, sad boy from run-down Cokeworth — could admit the same about Lockhart’s natural charm, looks, and comforts? Snape knew he should say something in that moment, but words, particularly those of a consoling nature, failed him.

“I want people to like me. _Really_ like me,” Lockhart said. “I think — I hope you like me.”

The lack of hesitation in Snape’s reply startled himself. “I do.” 

“Brilliant. Because I like you, too.”

Snape’s heart nearly jumped out when Lockhart beamed the most affectionate smile at him.

“You showed up for me.” Lockhart was bedraggled, disheveled, and shivering underneath Snape’s too-big robe — yet his happiness in that moment was undeniable. “My one fan and friend.” 

“God — I — you —” stammered Snape, crossing his arms tighter around his chest, “say the stupidest things.”

He could hear Lockhart’s laughs as he stalked away.

* * *

Lockhart was, for lack of a better word, useless. No amount of spell-casting demonstrations or syllable-by-syllable enunciation tutorials could make up for his utter incapability to render a spell that did its intended effects. He would cast _Carpe Retractum_ , aiming to seize and drag Snape by a magical rope, but he’d end up ensnaring himself and writhing on the grass in his own contraption.

But even though casting spells was outside of his range of expertise, Lockhart was surprisingly good at other things. There was an element of showmanship and good-natured sportsmanship he always displayed.

While he was nearly as inept at magic as a Muggle, he certainly could bluff his way up until the point of casting. Magic, for him, was a performance — the dramatic wand-waving, the dancer-like footwork, the stoic face of courage and concentration, and, of course, the garish, glittering dueling outfits. One particular pink ensemble nearly drove Snape to strike him with _Confringo._

Lockhart was also remarkably game for whatever Snape threw at him. One moment he’d whine and gripe about his bumbling losses and meagerly wins (sometimes Snape would “forget” to deflect the occasional, half-decent effort at a spell — why, Snape wasn’t _that_ mean), the next he’d leap to his feet and tell Snape to go again. Each time, Snape complied with controlled enthusiasm; he had a solid arsenal of charms and jinxes he craved to try, but there were many more that he kept to himself and his copy of _Advanced Potion-Making._

Despite his spell-casting shortcomings, Lockhart had a surprisingly solid grasp on magical knowledge. The Sorting Hat has put him into Ravenclaw, didn’t it? He recognized most of Snape’s spells, a notable feat given their difference in years. He was incredibly perceptive, too, almost always able to predict Snape’s next move (“It was _pppr-_ etty obvious what you wanted to do”). But neither knowledge nor insight served him well when he needed to actually attack or defend. With few magical means to react, sometimes Lockhart resorted to the old-fashioned way of evasion: simply jumping or diving out of the way. 

Every so often, Snape would grow impatient and let slip an insult — “What an idiotic move,” he’d snap, “Even a _Stupefied_ House-elf could’ve dodged that” — and every time, Lockhart would wince and look as crestfallen as if Snape had insulted his hair. So Snape did his best to curtail his sharp tongue, reserving its use on others more deserving of its acerbity.

Of course, there were those weary days when Lockhart was more inept and chatty than the short-tempered Slytherin could withstand, the frustrating days when even Snape struggled and fumbled with producing a working spell, the long days among the dark, damp trees where, if something bad were to happen, no one would find them. Snape put up with it all. The scratched arms, the bruised knees, the split lips. The arguments over how to properly cast _Impedimenta_ , the complaints over the drab weather and the inconvenient meeting location. He put up with it all, even when nothing seemed to be right, because of those other days.

There were those other days when the autumn leaves made a carpet of stunning reds and oranges, and Lockhart fell into them, showering leaves everywhere and coaxing Snape to join him. There were those days when Snape showed up early to their meeting spot, itching to try out a spell he had just discovered, only to find Lockhart there, a ready grin and wand in hand. There were those days that the two spent mostly patching up each other’s cuts and sharing small stories of their day’s classes, and other days when their practices were interrupted by a rainstorm or a passerby, so that they ran and hid under fallen trees, laughing breathlessly together.

“Where have you been lately?” Lily asked him one day. She had spotted him in a corner of the library and came over.

Snape’s heart pounded and his palms began to sweat — not only because he liked her, but because he felt as though he was hiding a secret. “What do you mean?”

“I haven’t seen you here, or anywhere else for that matter, in the past couple of weeks. Is everything okay?”

“I’ve been busy. I’m fine.”

“You don’t _look_ fine _.”_ She stared at the cuts on his hands.

“Potion accident,” he said. 

“You really ought to be more careful, Sev.”

Snape heard the concern and suspicion in her words. He knew she both cared for him and disapproved of his more surreptitious pastimes. As conflicted as he was, he decided he couldn’t tell her the real reason for his absences.

“Thanks,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I’ll be sure to heed each and every one of old Slughorn’s instructions.”

“You better.” Lily relaxed and managed a gentle smile. “None of your shortcuts.” 

“Now, I can’t promise that.”

“Oh, Sev.”

Snape would’ve fallen into his usual smitten daze over the fluttering, little sigh she gave, had it not been for the stiffness in her voice. She was clearly unconvinced by his purported injury and unsatisfied by his dubious equivocations. 

He felt a pang of hurt and guilt when Lily left. He wanted her to trust him. But why should she?

He was a deceitful, disdainful, and distant person. He broke school rules, used dark magic, and hurt others. There was nothing very good, as his father and other students often reminded him, about Snape.

_Why else would anyone want to be with someone foul and nasty like you?_

A dark cloud of insecurity had always hung over him, following him from his home to Hogwarts and growing heavier with each passing year. He feared for the day that the cloud, unchecked, would break open and dump a life’s worth of shame and anger and sadness on everything around him, ultimately destroying it all in a single, violent torrent. 

This was why, as strange as it sounded, he looked forward to dueling club. It was an outlet for his pent-up emotions. He could let out his frustration through combat, brush away his anxiety through learning and teaching, and regain his confidence through small victories. Most importantly, he could ease his loneliness until he nearly forgot that he didn’t matter. 

When he and Lockhart weren’t dueling or practicing, they were sitting and laying in the grass, catching their breaths — or losing them, in Lockhart’s case. Lockhart never seemed to stop babbling; most times, Snape didn’t mind. It was a refreshing change from what other people usually said to him and a welcome distraction from his own thoughts.

Nonetheless, Snape’s patience was never known to be infallible.

“Can we just sit here in silence for five minutes?” he said, as they sat by the lake one afternoon, watching the dark waters lap against the shore. “Would you do that, please, for the sake of my sanity?”

Lockhart blinked at him, then stopped talking. He brought his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and leaned over to rest his head against Snape’s arm. A balmy breeze tousled his soft hair against Snape’s cheek.

After what may have been five minutes or seconds or years, Snape shoved him off and stood up.

“Let’s duel. No warm-ups. No lessons. Now.”

“Right here? Are you sure?”

Snape’s stare of displeasure was sufficient enough as a reply.

A minute later, Lockhart was laying flat on his back, groaning and clutching his elbow. 

“Try _harder_ ,” Snape growled, sweeping a piercing gaze over Lockhart’s prone figure. “Your form is sloppy.”

Lockhart tried again, parrying Snape’s blows with fizzling attempts at _Protego._ Soon enough, he was wriggling on the ground, wheezing and breaking out into tears and laughter.

Snape watched, unblinking, as Lockhart gradually recovered and got to his feet, panting and sulking.

“I _haha_ -hate when you use _Rictusempra_.”

“There’s no time for histrionics. Now, concentrate your mind.”

A quiet grumble. “This isn’t easy for me. I’m not like you.”

“No, of course not,” Snape shot back. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here, and I wouldn’t have to teach you. Ready?”

Lockhart was no longer laughing. A curious glint shone in his eyes. In one swift motion, he whisked his wand out from his sleeve and aimed it at Snape.

“ _Flipendo_!”

A blue swirl of light flashed. Snape’s foot nearly slipped as he quickly deflected the spell.

“Better” — Snape was startled, excited, at a rare success at a spell he had taught, and his voice rose — “Now, try to —”

Lockhart’s cry was clear and strong:

“ _Sagitta_!”

Like a hornet, an arrow shot out of Lockhart’s wand. Snape barely had any time to react as it flew directly towards him. It struck the green scarf sitting on top of his shoulder, then zipped past, hitting a tree with a sharp crack. All this happened in a matter of seconds.

Everything dropped into silence, except for the ringing in Snape’s ear.

Snape’s eyes eventually drifted down to himself, subconsciously checking if he was still in one piece. Once he recognized that he was, he glanced back up at Lockhart, still standing there. The way the boy looked made Snape’s blood freeze.

The blonde’s face was animated and quivering; his smile too big, too bright, and with too many teeth. His fingers twisted around his wand, stabbing it towards Snape’s chest as if ready to inflict something unkind again. He looked less like an ordinary student and more like an unhinged dog, one that had barked so much that it had to remind you that it could bite.

Snape felt ice shoot up his lungs. It was a terrible, familiar sensation, one that came right before being hurt. For a brief moment, Snape wondered if he was alone again with James, Sirius, or his father — or something else, something worse.

“I did it,” came Lockhart’s soft voice. The words seemed to wake the boy, bring him back. He stared at his wand in awe. He repeated, louder this time, to himself: “I _did_ it.”

His eyes traced the direction of his wand, landing on Snape.

“Oh, right,” he said blankly, as if remembering Snape was there. He lowered his wand. “Did I hurt you?”

Snape was physically fine — he shook his head — but his mind was reeling.

“Gilderoy,” he asked, “where did you learn that?”

“Why, you haven’t taught me _everything_.” Lockhart rolled his eyes. “I’ve read about some of the more… unconventional spells. You’re not the only one who knows a couple of tricks.”

When Snape, chagrined, didn’t respond, Lockhart flittered over and inspected him closely.

“My word, you look ghastly. Are you sure you’re okay? Oh, your poor scarf! I’ll see that you get a brand-new one right away.” Lockhart then looked up at Snape with glowing blue eyes. “Are you proud of me, Severus?” 

“Yes,” Snape said. As troubled as he was for a few moments, he couldn’t deny the rush of satisfaction and pride that followed. This was his friend, not his enemy. And thanks to Snape’s own teachings, his friend was becoming stronger. “Let’s just hope that wasn’t a fluke.”

“Oh, just you wait, Severus.” Lockhart's smile widened. “I’ll be just as good as you someday.”

For a flickering second, Snape suspected that something stronger lurked underneath the boy’s shroud of incompetence.

Maybe next time the arrow wouldn’t miss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and comments and kudos are appreciated! Find me on Tumblr @plvtarch.


	3. Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snape opens up, Lockhart gives some advice (and maybe a makeover), and the two of them celebrate Valentine's Day.

Snape rarely spoke of home.

Home was creaky wooden floors and chipped gray paint. It was stifling, dim rooms and a too-hot stove. It was a small, squeaky bed with frayed sheets, a dirty window, and a door that couldn’t close. It was struggling to breathe, and not just because of the ash-choked air.

Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night, ears ringing with the sounds of shattering glass, his father’s slurred shouting, his mother’s screams and cries. His chest would be seized by that sharp, familiar ice, and silent tears would stream down his face and into his pillow until his eyes could no longer produce them.

“Did you stay up studying?” Lockhart would ask in the morning.

“Yes,” Snape would reply, a moment too late to be convincing.

After a few more questions and noncommittal answers, Lockhart stopped asking about his sleepless nights.

Snape didn’t feel compelled to explain. Especially after hearing about Lockhart’s many colorful childhood adventures in London, Snape had no desire to revisit his home, figuratively and literally. 

When Christmas holidays came around, Snape chose to stay at Hogwarts. Besides, his parents didn’t need another mouth to feed.

“If anything happens, I’m just an owl away,” Lockhart fretted. He was wearing mittens and a knitted ski hat and was carrying several suitcases of clothes, which had taken two full days to prepare. He was about to join the other students leaving for the train station. “Are you sure you don’t want to join me and my family?”

“And give up my chance to get a break from you? I’ll manage just fine.”

They both smiled briefly at each other, their cheeks red with cold and awkwardness.

“Right. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks, then. Have a merry Christmas, Severus.”

Snape chalked it up to the “holiday spirit” when he didn’t resist Lockhart’s goodbye hug. It was also in the “holiday spirit” when he found himself hugging back, bringing his arms around Lockhart’s warm body and burying his face into Lockhart’s blue scarf. Any lingering ice in his chest from the night before instantly melted away.

On Christmas Eve, Snape sat in the empty library, quietly watching the snow fall outside the large windows. Small, flickering wall lamps lit the dark room in a warm, muted glow. He wouldn’t have been able to see the winter view from the Slytherin Dungeons otherwise — nor would he have noticed the beautiful barn owl dropping a package in front of the window. 

_From Gilderoy Lockhart_ , a little note card inside the package read. It was inscribed in joined-up writing with golden ink. _To Dear Severus Snape._

Inside was not another scarf, or pair of socks, or peach-scented shampoo bottle. 

“ _Moste Potente Potions_ ,” Snape breathed, holding the black leather-bound book in his hands. It was unblemished, pristine, its inner pages a crisp milky white and filled with endless guides to rare, powerful, breakthrough potions. “How the hell did you get this, Gilderoy?”

He spent the rest of the night reading the book, rereading the note card, and watching the snow fall. That Christmas Eve felt more like home to him than he had ever felt at Spinner’s End.

* * *

When Lockhart returned and classes resumed, the frequency of dueling club meetings reduced. The snow and cold prevented them from comfortably staying outside for very long. But the weather didn’t stop them from seeing each other. 

First, there were the weekends.

A common weekend destination was Hogsmeade. Lockhart, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, was delighted to use his skillful penmanship to forge signatures on Snape’s permission slips. _Eileen Snape_ , he signed, after Snape eventually divulged his mother’s first name. Snape couldn’t remember ever seeing his mother’s signature. He wondered if it was also confidently long and loopy like Lockhart’s.

Despite a holiday’s worth of gifts having just passed, Lockhart took it upon himself to visit every store in town. It was like clockwork each time: he’d race around to each aisle and shelf, ask Snape to reach something or give his opinion, and eventually leave with yet another useless trinket or gaudy garment. Snape watched in awe as Lockhart doled out galleons over patterned neckties, shiny Oxfords, and scented moisturizers (when Snape admitted he never used one, Lockhart nearly had a heart attack in public). Unsurprisingly, the boy was on very good terms with each storeowner as a reliable patron and generous tipper.

For Snape, the previous extent of his purchasing experiences had been going to the one convenience store at home, carrying a few grubby coins in his pocket to exchange for a cheap six-pack of beer. As such, these “shopping trips” to Hogsmeade were a rather alien but enjoyable affair.

His favorite part of these trips was their visits to Dervish and Banges, the wizarding equipment shop in the center of town. He liked to admire the display of polished cauldrons and gape at the wall of glass jars containing hundreds of potion ingredients from around the world. He pictured himself using these items one day as a master potioneer, concocting powerful elixirs unheard of. He had to adamantly refuse Lockhart’s many offers to buy them.

A close second favorite was their breaks at The Three Broomsticks. It wasn’t the Butterbeer that he liked — too sugary for his taste — but it was watching Lockhart swagger over to their table, a smile on his face and a big, foaming mug in each hand. It was snickering at their numerous attempts at making bubbles in their drinks and foam mustaches on their lips. It was hiding a laugh as Lockhart nearly got into a fight with a group of seventh-years over the proper way to wear a tie (Lockhart hated the chronic inability of the Hogwarts student body to wear one). It was the long, tired walk home afterwards, with too many bags in his hands, too much Butterbeer in his stomach, and too many thoughts in his head as they watched the orange sun slowly dip from the sky. 

Then, there were the weekdays. 

Lockhart began joining Snape in the library, often in hopes that the older boy would aid him with his homework. Reading books and writing papers he had no issue with; he could write very well and liked to show the uninterested Snape that he could. But his problem, as usual, was the things that took a little more legwork, such as collecting materials and brewing potions.

Like with their dueling lessons, Snape eventually relented to the pleas of help. He showed Lockhart his secret place to find the freshest Wiggentree bark, and he showed Lockhart how to safely handle and crush Lionfish spines. He would argue that he was doing these things more out of impatience than pity. But it also didn’t hurt to see how impressed Lockhart looked at his explanations, or how excited Lockhart would be to finally understand a new spell.

But had he known those years ago what he knew now, Snape would have stopped. 

It was a January afternoon when they were sitting at a library table, books piled and papers sprawled around them, when Lockhart leaned forward and whispered, “Did you know that there’s a charm that can alter someone’s memories?” 

“Yes.” Snape, seated across him, was reading a book. “There’s one that modifies and falsifies memories, and another that erases memories entirely.”

The tip of Lockhart’s quill tapped inquisitively on his paper. “How interesting.”

“That’s how the Ministry of Magic keeps everything a secret from Muggles. Or tries to, anyways.”

Humming, then “Fascinating.”

Nearly a minute of silence passed before Snape spoke. “I hope you’re not planning to do something stupid.”

A glimpse of braces from Lockhart’s lips. “I’m disappointed by how little faith you have in me.”

“That, and I’m tired of cleaning up your messes.”

“Which I am grateful for,” Lockhart reminded. “Besides” — a teasing smile — “can you possibly imagine a better way to serve detention than with me?”

Snape turned a page, and his voice was flat. “Do you want an alphabetized list?”

Lockhart stuck out his tongue.

He didn’t think much of Lockhart’s inquiry. Lockhart asked similar questions all the time — and what use besides schoolwork could he have for memory charms? If carving his name in twenty-foot long letters into the Quidditch pitch and projecting his face into the night sky were any indicators, Lockhart certainly wanted people to remember him. Anyways, it wasn’t as though the idiot could even figure out how to cast such a spell.

“What are you reading?” Lockhart asked, reaching over.

Snape instinctively shut his book, making a startling loud noise. “It’s my textbook for Potions,” he said.

“May I see it?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“ _Please_ , I’ll give it right back.”

Snape took his hands off the book and slumped back into his chair with a sigh. This was not a battle worth fighting. 

Lockhart’s eyes lit up with victory. He snagged the book and started fervently flipping through its pages, examining the illustrations and scribbles in the margins with great interest. “There's so much writing in here.” He peered closely at the pages as if they contained secret treasures. “It’s like a book inside a book!”

“It’s all shortcuts and adjustments to some recipes. A lot of trial and error.”

“Brilliant,” said Lockhart, in that fawning way that made Snape’s chest feel weirdly light. “And what is this?” 

Snape peered over and saw that Lockhart had the book open to something different. It was a spread of wrinkled loose-leaf papers shoved into the middle of the book and filled with Snape’s own black-inked handwriting.

There was a small pause as Snape tried to think of an alternative explanation. There was none. He bit his lip. “Those are some spells and potions I’ve created.”

“The infamous Severus Snape Spells!” Lockhart looked as if he had stumbled upon Godric Gryffindor’s sword. “In the original manuscript, in the flesh! This is an honor, truly. Do enlighten me. What do these do?”

Snape got up to see what he was pointing at. With an uneasy swallow, he noticed that Lockhart’s finger was resting on the words, _For Enemies_.

“This one” — Snape moved behind him and pointed to a different spell — “is _Langlock_. Can you guess what it does?” 

For a moment, Lockhart appeared deep in thought, blond brows furrowed together, before shaking his head.

“It’s a silencing jinx.” The book shot out from Lockhart’s fingers. “I’ve used it on Lupin, and I’ll use it on you right now if you don’t cease your yammering.”

“Why, you should have these approved by the Ministry of Magic!” exclaimed Lockhart, his blue eyes sparkling with dogged enthusiasm. “You could be published in actual books and papers. You could be _famous_!”

Snape grumbled something disparaging about Lockhart’s “flights of fancy” as he returned to his seat and tucked away his book. He had no interest in the spotlight, and his spells were for his own personal use. They would never be received well, anyways, due to their ill intentions. 

But Snape wondered, as he resumed his studies, what that might look like. Scholars and professors marveling over his inventions. His works and writings printed and read by students across the magical world. For these reasons he could see the appeal that Lockhart found in such endeavors. Yet he couldn’t fully buy into them.

Fame was shallow and fleeting. Much of it was a game of personality and luck — two things Snape lacked — and not a recognition of intellect or skill. The moment that anyone more interesting came along was the moment one would be forgotten. Therefore, Snape saw no sense in competing for the attention spans of flies, just to inevitably fall by the wayside as one grew older and outmoded. He had resigned himself to a life of obscurity — ever since his father chose bottles over him and his mother stopped looking at him.

“What does it mean, _Half-Blood Prince_?”

Snape felt lunch almost come up his throat. “What?” he choked.

“You wrote, in the cover of your book, it said, ‘ _This Book is the Property of —_ ’” 

“I _warned_ you,” Snape hissed, lowering his wand as Lockhart clutched at his throat and failed to produce any words, “yet, like a mule, you stubbornly refuse to listen and instead insist on braying.” He started gathering his things from the table, shoving papers, books, and quills into his bag. Before he turned to leave, he shot a look over at the shocked and mute Lockhart, whose mouth was hanging open and empty.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he muttered, quieter, and he undid the jinx as he left.

Snape’s hands were trembling as he held onto his bag. His copy of _Advanced Potions_ was buried deep inside it. It was a mistake, letting Lockhart look at it. He wasn’t at all prepared to answer any questions about the circumstances of his upbringing, especially not over an embarrassing thing he wrote in the midst of an emotionally immature episode last year.

Hearing the words _Half-Blood Prince_ drop from Lockhart’s lips had sent a flush of shame through him. At one point the moniker sounded confident, arrogant even — a denouncement of his Muggle father — but as he continued reading it and thinking it, it evolved, embodying his increasingly self-loathing attitudes toward himself.

Not the _Prince_ , but the _Half-Blood Prince_. The dirty son who tainted and ruined his mother’s pure-blood line. 

Why did he show Lockhart the book? He had never let anyone else see it before. Perhaps deep down, he wondered if Lockhart, himself a half-blood, would understand. But why would Snape want someone else’s sympathy? How disgustingly weak he was, seeking comfort from a fellow half-blood.

The knuckles on his bag grew whiter as nauseating sickness flooded over him. He was confused, angry, and ashamed, and as he fell among the crowd of chattering students out in the corridors, he felt the familiar tug on his shirtsleeve and a soft “Severus.”

Tired and not very surprised, Snape’s grip on his bag loosened. The bag almost slipped off his shoulder, but Lockhart easily caught it.

“Let me help you,” said Lockhart.

Snape let him.

They eventually found themselves sitting at the bottom of a secluded stairwell, their backs pressed against the stone brick wall. Snape was staring down at the cracks in the ground, and Lockhart was staring at him. There was nobody around except them.

“My mother’s maiden name is Prince,” he finally said, his voice low. “I’m a half-blood.”

There was a moment of silence. Lockhart was likely choosing his words carefully.

“Your mother, is she a Muggle?” 

“No. My father is.”

“What are they like?” 

A snort. “Does it matter?”

“You’ve never told me.”

“What do you want to know? That my father’s a Muggle and a cruel alcoholic, that my paranoid mother can’t look at me without seeing him?” Snape’s teeth flashed. “You want a story, hm? So that you can pity me, so that you can feel better about yourself?”

Lockhart looked away, shielding his surprise and sorrow from the Slytherin who wanted none. “It isn’t like that at all.”

“Then what is it?”

“I just want to know you, Severus.” His voice cracked with sincerity. “I want to know who you — who this _Half-Blood Prince_ is.”

Snape traced a hard circle in the ground with the tip of his shoe. “It was something I came up with one day. That’s all it is. Now you know me. Satisfied?”

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of any of it.”

“Who says I’m ashamed?”

“You never talk about yourself.”

“Because you’ve merrily taken that task upon yourself.”

“Did you ever consider that _maybe_ I share so much about myself because _you_ never bother saying anything longer than a sentence? Seriously, Severus. Sometimes I wonder why I try. It’s worse than talking to a suit of armor in the hallways.”

Feeling self-conscious under Lockhart’s pointed gaze, Snape said nothing, which only served to validate Lockhart’s claim.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of your blood status,” Lockhart continued, gentler, “or whatever else others tell you to be ashamed of. It doesn’t matter who raised you or where you grew up. It matters who you make yourself become.”

Lockhart was wringing his hands, Snape noticed.

“That’s what I tell myself, too.” He then gave a small, warm smile at Snape. “Who do you want to become, Severus?”

No one had ever asked him that question. But Snape could think of a few things.

A son that his parents would care for. A Slytherin that Gryffindors would respect. A friend that Lily would trust. 

All foolish answers that Lockhart — who dreamed daily of ridding the world of evil and marketing his own range of hair-care potions — would laugh at. Lockhart had ambition and determination, a steel-like tenacity powered by sheer confidence and will that Snape never had. And Snape didn’t need him to know that.

So Snape, straightening his back against the stone wall, chose the next best answer. “A master of Dark Arts, potions, Legilimency and Occlumency. A discoverer of new spells, and a creator of original potions.”

“And a champion duellist,” added Lockhart, with a grin that glimmered in the filtered light of the stairwell. “Those will be very easy for you. You’re already a great wizard.”

As always, Lockhart was unshakably optimistic. Why did he believe so easily in Snape? It was irritatingly supportive. 

Snape slumped lower to the ground and mumbled.

“Pardon?”

“Sorry.”

_For jinxing you. For not talking to you. For being an all-around arsehole._

And there was no _I forgive you_ or _It’s okay_ or _It’s all right_.

“I know.”

Laughs and yells of other students came from some floors above them and echoed in the stairwell. Distracted, the two of them sat there silently on the dusty floor, lost in thought.

“Don’t pretend that you don’t enjoy hearing me talk,” Lockhart eventually said, and he lightly punched Snape’s arm. “You complain, but you’ve laughed at more of my jokes than anyone else.”

“Only because they’re so dreadful.” Snape rubbed at the nonexistent pain.

“Maybe I don’t know everything about you,” Lockhart continued. “But I know things like that. How Severus Snape pretends not to find my jokes amusing, so he gets this funny, scrunched-up look on his face.”

“I don’t make a face.”

“Or how he gets that silly, wide-eyed look whenever he’s embarrassed, like that, right now, exactly!” Lockhart laughed. “I think it’s cute —”

Snape double-blinked.

“— the name, _Half-Blood Prince_. Flows off the tongue. So what would that make me? The _Half-Blood Lockhart_? Doesn’t have the same ring. Needs a one-syllable word...”

Maybe Lockhart was right: Snape liked hearing him talk, a little too much. Yes, Lockhart was vain, greedy, and too preoccupied with fashion and fame. Yet Snape marveled at this sort of childlike innocence, detached outside and above the harsh reality that Snape knew. 

“Just be you, Gilderoy,” Snape said. “Nobody else.”

He didn’t know if the boy heard him. Lockhart was too busy talking.

* * *

A few weeks later, it was a Sunday morning in the courtyard. The snow had gone, but it was not yet warm enough for lighter clothes. There were a few students running around or talking in groups, but a loud game of Gobstones near the center of the courtyard drew Snape’s attention.

He walked over slowly, watching as one brown-haired girl got up from the game and wiped off Gobstone gunk from her face. The girl said something curt to her opponent. Remaining, seated cross-legged on the ground, was a laughing redhead who didn’t notice him approach.

“Need another player?” 

She looked up at him and stopped laughing. After a moment she nodded.

He set down his books and bag and sat on the ground across from her, folding his long legs underneath himself. Laying in the center were the gobstones, and the two quietly began sorting the colorful pieces between themselves.

“Do you remember how to play?” Lily said finally.

“Of course.”

They played without much in the way of a conversation, except when remarking on their plays and chuckling after a gobstone spurted on one of them. Snape didn’t strongly care for a game that involved putrid-smelling liquids, but he found a private joy in feeling like Lily’s friend again, if only for a single game of Gobstones.

Eventually, Lily laughed. “I thought you’d be better at this. Wasn’t your mother Team Captain of the Gobstones Team?”

Snape wiped his nose with his shirtsleeve and muttered, “That bears no relevance to me.” The sweet, familiar sound of her laugh and the fact that she remembered such a detail about his family made his heart stir. He had missed her, missed their games and their banter.

The game ended as Snape expected, with his gobstone being knocked aside and him gagging at the smell it made. Lily was pumping her arm in the air.

“Good job,” he said, trying to smile despite the anxious ache in his chest. He had realized they were finished. “Do you want to play again?”

It almost looked as if she would say yes, but something had changed. “I think someone else wants to play,” she said.

Snape could barely disguise the scowl on his face as he saw the blond-haired Ravenclaw skipping up to them.

Lockhart stood over them, hands on his hips, looking very fascinated in their game. “Mind if I join?” 

“I already have a partner,” Snape said icily.

“I wasn’t asking you. I was asking the winner here. Hello, my name’s Gilderoy Lockhart.”

“Hi,” she said, polite and friendly, “I’m Lily Evans.”

There was that trademark Lockhart smile, followed by a purr that made Snape want to vomit. “Lily Evans. What a pleasure.”

“Some of my friends are waiting for me, so I should be going,” she said apologetically, pocketing her gobstones and getting to her feet. “But it was nice meeting you, Gilderoy. And I had fun playing, Sev. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Snape and Lockhart said together.

As soon as Lily was out of sight, Lockhart gave a laugh that sounded almost like a cackle. “ _Sev_?”

Snape had the urge to hurl a fistful of gobstones at Lockhart’s head. “What’re you doing here, Gilderoy?” he snapped.

He was met with a grin that was far too playful for his liking. “Do you have any more nicknames that you’re hiding from me?”

“We were about to start a game,” he seethed, standing up so that he could loom intimidatingly over the mirthful boy. “And yet you couldn’t have manifested at a more _inconvenient_ moment. Why couldn’t you have asked somebody else?”

Lockhart waved his hand flippantly. “I don’t actually want to play. Gobstones, really? How badly do you like her?”

There was only Snape’s mortified silence.

“Lily Evans,” Lockhart hummed, clearly deriving immense satisfaction from Snape’s anger and embarrassment. “Seems like a nice girl. Pretty, too. I didn’t think you had any interest in girls.”

Snape’s face blushed red and his stomach grew weak. “Quit saying her name, you idiot!” he hissed, eyes darting around for eavesdroppers. 

Lockhart continued teasing him like a cat playing with its food. “My, I wouldn’t have pinned you as a romantic, but I can see it now! The quiet, dark-haired boy, secretly longing and pining for the attention of a beautiful girl. Oh, how classic!”

Snape stared at Lockhart as if he had sprouted horns. He took a step backwards in disgust and horror. “What filth have you been reading lately? I’m not _longing_ or _pining_ ,” he said, in a very strained whisper, which became quieter as he continued. “And she’s not some _beautiful girl_. She’s smart — and kind — and funny.” 

His reply seemed to put a stop to Lockhart’s ribbings. The boy’s eyebrows raised slightly in genuine surprise and almost disbelief. “How do you mean?” he questioned. He trailed after Snape, who had begun stalking away.

Once they were away from the courtyard and out of earshot of the other students, they stopped. They stood underneath a stone awning, hovering between some old columns, with questions thick in the disquietude.

“Lily and I,” Snape professed, through gritted teeth, swinging his arms back and forth as nerves shot through them, “are — friends.” 

He didn’t know if he sounded convincing enough, because Lockhart was quick to question: “Are you, really? Why don’t I ever see you two together?”

Snape’s response was swift and bitter. “Is it such a shock that I have other friends besides you?”

Now it was Lockhart’s turn to look embarrassed.

“I’ve known her my entire childhood. Her house was, is near mine. We grew up together and started Hogwarts together. At one point we were very close. But things changed.”

If Snape wasn’t mistaken, Lockhart looked, in the tight way his jaw set, bothered. Was the boy suddenly grappling with the revelation that his friendship with Snape wasn’t particularly special? 

Snape expected to be asked to further explain his friendship with Lily, but Lockhart had a more direct question:

“And you like her?”

The Slytherin concentrated hard on the details of his own shoes. It took all of his will to force the smallest nod he could manage. 

He didn’t know quite why, not exactly — but Snape had a strange feeling that his confession would make Lockhart upset.

“I see.”

He looked up at Lockhart, and saw that the boy was smiling in that typical stupid, smiley way.

“You know, Severus, I am many things” — Lockhart ran a practiced hand through his wavy hair — “and an expert on romance is one of them. If I’m not too busy with my _own_ plans for love, I can, perhaps, spare some of my expertise to help you win her over.”

“What?” Snape was flabbergasted. “ _You_?”

“I’ve had girls giggle and bat their eyelashes at me,” sighed Lockhart, with a dramatically distant look in his eyes. “Sometimes they like to make it a game, where they pretend not to be interested in me, only to come around with compliments of my fine clothes and gorgeous eyes. I’ve found that it usually takes a few poetic letters to get them to notice you, but they especially like it when you give gifts.”

If pity hadn’t overridden his instincts, Snape would have burst out laughing. Instead, he stifled himself and said, “They’re using you. You know that.”

Snape suspected that he knew, but Lockhart gave no mind, puffing his chest and proudly exclaiming, “A girl even kissed me once! Yes! I held her in my arms, she lifted her leg back, and it was very romantic, just like in the fairytales.”

Snape was also pretty sure that was not how normal kissing or fairytales went, especially not for young teenagers. But he didn’t know enough about either to deny Lockhart’s boasts. 

Lockhart clapped his hands together as a brilliant idea struck him. “Let me give you some pointers!” His eyes flew open. “Let me give you a _makeover_.” 

Snape recoiled as if he had been scathed by hell’s flames. “I don’t need either of those things, _especially_ not from you.”

The blond’s eyes were practically sparkling. “Oh, how much I’ve wanted to do this! I’m _so_ glad you finally got the courage to tell me all this. Of _course_ , I’d be happy to help you. After I’m done with you, she’ll surely like you back!”

A half-baked protest died on Snape’s lips as Lockhart circled around him and surveyed his clothes and his appearance, his tongue slightly sticking out in concentration.

Without further ado, Lockhart dove straight in. “Let’s start by straightening your back and relaxing your shoulders.” He tapped on Snape’s hunched back and then gestured towards Snape’s drooping face. “Chin up — more — no, a little lower. There. Not too tense, ah, not too loose. Posture is of the utmost importance when making an impression.”

Was this how Lockhart felt during their dueling lessons? Snape’s limbs felt stiff and wax-like as he contorted himself into an unfamiliar posture.

“See? Not so bad. You look taller and stronger already. Girls like boys like that!”

Snape’s eyes followed Lockhart as the boy spun on his heels and stopped to face Snape.

“Now” — Lockhart smiled and daintily twirled his pointer fingers up — “give me a nice, big smile!”

This took Snape much more effort. His teeth were crooked and sharp and yellow, and while he’d never admit it aloud, they made him feel terribly embarrassed. Despite this insecurity, Snape swallowed and raised his lips until it felt unnatural; in other words, he smiled.

“Perfect,” Lockhart said, almost adoringly. “Lovely.”

Snape’s smile was quickly replaced by his usual frown.

“When you speak, make subtle suggestions.” Lockhart spoke as if he was giving sound bites to a reporter. “Drop compliments, offer your help. When she makes a joke, laugh at it — when she makes an observation, praise it. Whatever you say, don’t forget to smile, and always, _always_ make eye contact.”

The last bit was clearly directed at Snape, who was looking down and feeling quite conscious of himself. As much as he wanted to be liked by Lily and to fit in with his peers, he had never really given serious thought to matters of appearance and behavior before. Would it make things much better if he did?

Snape hesitantly raised his eyes. Through a curtain of hair, black met blue.

“It’ll help if you move your hair out of your face,” suggested Lockhart, going behind Snape. He stood on his tippy toes and, before Snape could put the pieces together, began pulling back Snape’s hair.

It was a strangely light feeling, Lockhart’s touch. His fingers, smooth and warm, grazed Snape’s cheeks and the tips of Snape’s ears as he picked out loose black strands. His hands, surprisingly nimble and gentle, fastened a spare ribbon (he inexplicably carried around such useless objects) around Snape’s hair. When he was finished, his voice came from behind Snape and said, “Let’s see how you look.”

They stood, side by side, in front of the building’s window.

Snape stared daggers at his unrecognizable reflection. It was a pair of blinking black eyes, pointy ears, sharp bones, a too-big nose, and a ponytail held by a frilly white ribbon. Worst of all, it was red with humiliation.

“I look ridiculous.”

Lockhart, on the other hand, was admiring Snape with the pompous satisfaction of an artist and his creation. A self-proclaimed hair connoisseur, he had made quick, neat work of Snape’s nest of hair, effortlessly taming its unruly strands.

“No, no, not at all!” Lockhart extolled, clasping his hands together in delight. “I think you look very smart. This brings out your features — your cheekbones, your forehead, your eyes! — quite wonderfully. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Snape didn’t know whether to say yes or no; he dared not give Lockhart a reason to continue this torture. So he asked, “Do you think she’ll like me?”

“Of course! Who wouldn’t?”

As far as he knew, no one had ever liked him. Even though it was an obvious fact, it was too much for Snape to admit aloud. So he gave a stiff shrug.

“Don’t be silly,” Lockhart tutted crossly. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. Why, you already have everything else anyone can possibly like — the intelligence, the attentiveness, the dedication.” He waved a hand over Snape’s reflection. “It’s just about presentation. That’s how these matters always are. And I can help you with it.”

“No,” Snape curtly interrupted, and he stepped away from Lockhart and his reflection. “That’s enough.”

He was feeling overwhelmed, for many reasons. Confessing his feelings for Lily, being Lockhart’s little show dog. Hearing praises and compliments, having his hair touched. 

“All right. I suppose we can move on to clothes at a future date.”

“I doubt it,” growled Snape, feeling the heat rising in his face. He had put up with this ridiculous chain of events for far too long, and he needed to escape before Lockhart ended up in the Hospital Wing. 

He barely noticed Lockhart’s flittering smile as he stormed away, and it wasn’t until he arrived back at his dormitory and saw himself in the mirror that he realized his hair was still in a ponytail.

After cursing and pulling it apart, Snape flung himself across his bed, feeling the stresses of the day sink heavy into his chest. For a while, he laid there — legs hanging off the side, eyes turned up at the blank ceiling, fingers playing absently with the ribbon — and silently sifted through his jumble of thoughts.

Did girls really like Gilderoy? 

Did Gilderoy actually kiss a girl?

Did Gilderoy also brush his fingertips across her face and call her nice things?

Snape stood up suddenly from his bed. He threw away the ribbon.

* * *

It was the same thing as it was the past four years: the worst holiday of the year.

As soon as Snape woke up and stepped out of the Dungeons, he was greeted by a swarm of his fellow Slytherins running about and giggling. At breakfast, he dodged arms trading heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. During class, he nearly sabotaged the potion of his activity partner, who kept stealing glances and passing notes to a girl. In the hallways, he suppressed coughs as older students held hands and gave each other flowers. Even the library was desecrated by couples sharing kisses over books and behind shelves, and Snape thought he was suddenly experiencing something far worse than the Unforgivable Curses.

Maybe instead of becoming a wizard, Snape would make it his mission to destroy Valentine’s Day.

But there was one thing very different about this year’s Valentine's Day. Future Hogwarts students and professors would still talk about what happened that day — and while infamy was not a part of Lockhart’s original plan, it was very much a Lockhart thing and would go on to be a point of pride for him.

Snape was sitting outside on a bench, avoiding the worst of the day’s activities and writing the ideas of a new potion in his _Advanced Potions_ copy, when a shower of pink and red rose petals fell upon his open book and lap.

He didn’t even bother looking up. Gripping his pencil harder, he tried to remember what he was about to write next, but the petals covering the page distracted him. “Gilderoy —”

“— Happy Valentine’s Day, Severus! What a beautiful, marvelous morning at Hogwarts it is today. The songbirds are singing, the flowers are blooming, and love — oh, love! — is in the air. I’ve never felt any better!”

Snape looked up at him and immediately said, “Good lord.”

“I’m glad you noticed,” Lockhart crowed, caressing his own clothes. “Obviously, I _had_ to put on the perfect outfit for the occasion. How do I look?”

Lockhart was a lurid pink from head to toe. His frock coat, vest, trousers, and shoes were all a similar shade of vibrant pink, with the exception of his white cravat and ruffled cuffs. He looked like a flamingo. Despite his awful taste, he did have admittedly great execution. Every cut and stitch seemed measured to fit the boy, and the high-end fabrics ranged from silk to satin. Altogether, Lockhart looked somewhere halfway between handsome and horrendous.

“Fitting.”

Snape’s neutral response was music to Lockhart’s ears. “Isn’t it?” he beamed, with a flutter of his eyelashes. His perfect hair, too, looked extra-perfect today. It had just the right amount of natural golden waviness and god-knows-what hair products that caught and reflected the sun’s rays, creating a shimmering halo around his head and making him appear like Saint Valentine himself.

“What about your uniform?”

“That gray polyester garbage? Nonsense. A day like this deserves nothing less than one’s best. If fashion is a crime, I’ll gladly serve detention.”

In Snape’s opinion, detention was not a worthy enough atonement for the injuries Lockhart’s outfit inflicted upon innocent eyes that day.

“Besides,” said Lockhart self-importantly, “I need to look my best for all my admirers!”

There he was again, bringing up how beloved he was by the female population of Hogwarts. Even if it was nothing more than a tall tale, a flash of jealousy shot through Snape. “Your admirers?” 

“A little birdie told me that I should be expecting a few declarations of love today. Oh, don’t look so upset, I’m sure there’ll be some for you.” He patted Snape’s shoulder in an impassive attempt to be comforting. “Perhaps Lily?”

A fierce “Shut up.” Snape shrugged away Lockhart’s hand. “She wouldn’t.”

“It is rather a challenge to get one’s attention,” mused Lockhart, and he nodded sympathetically. “But then, what about you? Will you do something romantic for her? Maybe a bouquet, or a poem?”

“I’d sooner brew and drink my own poison.” Snape was flicking rose petals off of himself and his book as if they were insects.

How absurd that Lockhart considered Snape to be even remotely inclined to commit such atrocious acts of romance for her. Yet a tiny part of Snape’s brain wondered what he would do, in a completely hypothetical and unrealistic situation, of course. It was hard to tell what she would like; she didn’t seem like the romantic sort. That made two of them.

Lockhart, though, was undeniably the embodiment of a romantic, in every meaning of the word. With all his sweet words and careful appearances and lofty daydreams, it was almost admirable how dedicated he was in every facet to this ridiculous dance and show. His likelihood of success in his pursuits, though, was an entirely different matter. Whether he could actually get the girl, become a world-renowned Quidditch player, or create a successful business of beauty products was debatable. Still, he carried with him the unflinching confidence and naïveté of a newborn puppy, who, in the chase for things it wanted, didn’t fear the dangers of the world. The world, in Lockhart’s romantic view, was ripe with opportunities.

And this romantic view carried into Lockhart’s friendship with Snape. For as much as Lockhart cared about his own self-interests, he had brought Snape into his small circle of priorities. He always thought the best of Snape and wanted the best for Snape. He congratulated Snape’s accomplishments, supported his ideas, and worried about his problems and well-being. From the way that Lockhart looked at him and spoke to him, one would think that Snape held this world, this bright and big world in Lockhart’s mind, in the palm of his hand. 

“Personally, I’m more in the mood for pumpkin juice,” Lockhart said cheerfully, jolting Snape out of his thoughts. “Care to come with me to lunch?” 

There was one last petal wedged in the crack between the pages of Snape’s book, and instead of removing it, he closed his book.

“Sure.”

A simple activity as walking to the Great Hall proved to be an occasion in itself. Lockhart proudly led the way, his outfit attracting stares and snickers, with Snape following a careful distance behind. Snape watched, in the horrified yet enraptured way one would pass an automobile wreck, as Lockhart flitted back and forth with a singing “Hello!” or “Happy Valentine’s Day!” — followed by a well-aimed pocketful of rose petals — to unsuspecting strangers and friends alike. If Snape hadn’t been afraid of getting in trouble, he would’ve burst out laughing when a conversation between Flitwick and another student was interrupted by an unfortunate shower of petals.

Finally, this parade of petals and pink arrived at the Great Hall. Snape could only thank Merlin that they were in different Houses, so that whatever shred of social standing Snape still had left wouldn’t be destroyed by association. But as he sat down to eat at the Slytherin table, he found himself side-eyeing the other tables.

It was easy to spot Lily among the crowd of Gryffindors — her shock of red hair, like a flame, bobbed up and down as she chatted away with her friends. Did she get any Valentines? Probably. The thought made Snape feel small inside, as he picked unenthusiastically at a leg of chicken.

So he turned over to the Ravenclaw table. If Lily was a flame, then Lockhart was a beacon of light among the sea of gray uniforms with his pink suit. Snape wondered if any of Lockhart’s “admirers” would show up. Or, perhaps — did Lockhart like anyone? Did Lockhart have plans to do something for someone he liked? Snape didn’t know why, but this new thought made him feel even tinier. Both Lily and Lockhart were popular, likeable, fairly good-looking students; Snape wasn’t blind. Of course they had Valentines. Snape stared blankly at his plate.

It turned out that, indeed, Lockhart had Valentine’s Day plans for someone: himself.

At first, it was innocuous enough. No one else raised any brows when the first few letters arrived. But of course, Snape watched in surprise — so Lockhart _did_ have admirers — as Lockhart’s barn owl (Snape recognized it from Christmas) delivered the first letter, tucked in a red envelope. Lockhart promptly tore it open and read the card aloud:

“ _Dear Gilderoy Lockhart_. _Do you remember our first meeting in the candlelit snow? Since then, my feelings have continued to grow. My days and my nights have been spent thinking of you. I love you, and this I know to be true. —_ Oh, how lovely! How thoughtful!” He was swooning. “My, the penmanship is quite beautiful, and the cardstock, such quality!”

Lockhart then “noticed” there was a second letter. “Oh, Empress, you have another one for me! Why, this is so unexpected!” He lovingly petted his owl and then read the next card, which was just as melodramatic as the first:

“ _Dear Gilderoy Lockhart. This is to thank you for being by my side. You’re funny and caring, and I love your blue eyes. I wish I could express how special a place you have in my heart. I simply cannot bear how far we are apart._ — Good heavens! How darling! Such a gifted way with words, it pulls at my heartstrings.”

Apparently, Lockhart’s only admirer was Lockhart himself. 

Yet Snape couldn’t relish in this realization for long, as one by one, then dozen by dozen, the rest of the letters began to trickle, then pour in — “Oh, another Valentine from another adoring admirer!” Lockhart did his best at collecting the growing pile of cards, starting to open and quickly read one out, but then he would get cut off by a new bundle of pink and blue envelopes landing on top of his food. After a few instances of this, and his pile of fifteen cards became fifty, it was quickly clear that he couldn’t keep up.

On the other hand, his fellow Ravenclaws had become quite exasperated. They started yelling at him for disturbing their lunchtimes and their _own_ card-openings with his debacle. Then the Hufflepuffs, the Gryffindors, and eventually even the Slytherins joined in the uproar. Their confused and angry yells turned into panicked screams as feathers, letters, and droppings started falling onto their heads and their plates from the increasing frenzy of owls above them.

Lockhart’s poor owl, Empress, became lost in the flurry of other barn owls and snowy owls and horned owls that swooped in and out of the Great Hall, all delivering an unending stream of letters and other gifts for Lockhart. A small mountain had started around him. With all the disarray and commotion in the air, some birds collided with one other and even with the floating candles, and then suddenly there were burning feathers and letters landing among the fleeing students, who leapt out of their seats and rushed toward the doors to escape the birds and the growing terrible burning smell.

The Great Hall became darker as a great shadow passed over the windows; a storm of owls was gathering, nearly eclipsing the sun. A few of the birds began pecking at the windows, as the usual channels into the school were clogging up. At the same time were the scattered shouts of professors who shot various spells around the room, trying to put out the small fires while getting all the students to evacuate so that they could close the doors and seal off the room. In the midst of all the screams and spells flying everywhere came Dumbledore’s thundering roar: “Alert the Post Office to cease all incoming mail at once!”

Meanwhile, Lockhart was having a sudden, earth-shattering realization about the massive, grave errors of his plans — a sticky owl dropping had landed in his hair. He instantly turned a ghostly white and looked like he was about to have a stroke. In a cowardly, desperate attempt to save himself from his own mayhem and madness, he threw his arms around a pile of letters, chocolates, flowers, and presents. He gathered as many as he could carry and started scampering, nearly slipping over the food and droppings and letters on the floor, toward the doors.

Yet Snape was barely registering all of this pandemonium. He was sitting, staring shock-still, at a single letter resting in front of his plate. On the eggshell-white envelope read his name: _Severus Snape._

He gingerly picked the letter up as if it was made of glass, half-expecting it to vanish in his hands. No, it was real — the envelope felt smooth under his fingers. 

Then, like a hungry child, he ripped open the envelope, pulled out the card, and read the scribble of writing inside.

 _Dear Sev,  
_ _Happy Valentine’s Day_  
 _To my very best friend.  
Love, Lily_

His whole body lit up.

She hadn’t forgotten about him.

They were still best friends.

_Love, Lily_

He wanted to hug the card, sing it from the top of his lungs, and suddenly he understood why people did foolish things for each other on Valentine’s Day.

“Sev!”

Heart pounding, he turned around to find Lily standing there behind him, her green eyes blown open and her clothes in a crumple. His mouth gaped wordlessly like a beached fish as he struggled to process his thoughts and feelings into words.

“What’re you still doing?” she shouted at him as he sat there gawking. “Let’s go!”

She had come for him! He followed her out, quickly wondering how to bring up the letter as they scrambled their way around the ongoing mayhem. Once they were outside, where other students huddled and held their books over their heads as owls flew above, he took her by the shoulder.

“Lily,” he began.

She turned around. “What?”

“Your letter. I just read it.”

“My letter.”

“Yes. It was very nice. Thank you.” He swallowed thickly and said, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she quietly replied. “But I’m sorry, Sev. I didn’t send you a letter or anything of the sort.”

Snape felt as though he had been physically struck. “But you wrote your name in it.”

“Are you sure it was mine?”

“I —” He was holding the card tightly behind his back. “— I don’t know. Maybe — maybe I misread it.”

She nodded slowly, as if politely expressing that she understood what was happening even if she did not. Snape felt his soul departing his body.

“Sorry,” she said apologetically, looking a little embarrassed.

“It’s okay,” he said weakly, wishing that an owl would drop a stack of letters on top of him and put him out of his misery. 

“That’s exciting, though, right? Someone likes you.”

“Yeah.”

Snape was squeezing the card so strongly that he thought it would disintegrate in his hand. His mind was whirling out of control. Who would forge a letter from Lily? Who, of all people, would send a fake Valentine?

Without saying another word, he turned around and left.

It was very easy to find the boy. He was in the bathrooms, bent over a running sink and trying frantically to wash his hair out.

“GILDEROY!”

“Severus!” Lockhart turned. His face was dripping with water and looked crestfallen. “Look at what happened to my hair!”

“Forget about your idiotic hair!” Snape stormed in, furiously bristling. “What kind of sick prank is _this_?” He held the crumpled letter in his fist out to Lockhart, whose eyes instantly grew round with fright. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” Lockhart shut off the water and backed up, spilling some of the cards from his pockets onto the bathroom floor.

“Don’t _lie_ to me. I know you wrote this” — Snape shook the letter in the air — “along with all five hundred of your other cards!”

“Eight hundred!” squeaked Lockhart, and he stooped down to pick up his scattered, multi-colored letters, only managing to spill even more. Struggling to gather the letters and his dignity, he flailed helplessly on the floor. “Look, I’m sorry!” he cried. “I thought it’d cheer you up!”

“Get up!” Snape seized Lockhart by the collar and yanked him up. “You humiliated me,” he spat, staring straight into Lockhart’s dripping red face. “I thanked her for the letter, she looked at me like I was crazy, and now she has the _completely_ wrong idea and thinks that someone _else_ likes me. Look at what you’ve done, you buffoon!”

“I didn’t think you’d actually go to her —”

“That’s because you don’t think!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” yelped Lockhart, and he squirmed in Snape’s grip. “I didn’t want you to feel left out from all the festivities! I know you like her, and that you’re friends, but I didn’t want you to be disappointed, not today of all days. You seemed so eager for her attention as of late, so I thought a Valentine from her would make you happy. Perhaps” — he winced under Snape’s glower — “perhaps I should’ve gone with my original plan and given you one from myself.”

Snape let go of Lockhart, and Lockhart, shaking, stepped back and readjusted his collar. Then Snape went out of the bathroom, leaving Lockhart to go back to gathering his gifts on the floor.

Outside, Snape was silently sitting on the ground against the adjacent wall, his knees brought up to his chest and his head bent down. When Lockhart finished, he came out and sat down beside Snape.

Snape’s face was buried in his sleeves, and he didn’t say anything as he heard Lockhart rummaging through the many gifts and letters.

“Do you want some?” asked Lockhart gently. His voice was smaller than Snape had ever heard it. “I bought way too many.”

Snape turned his head so that his eyes peeked out from his sleeves and his hair. Lockhart was earnestly holding out an open heart-shaped box of chocolates to him like an offering, an apology.

“Have any dark ones?” 

Lockhart sounded hopeful. “Yes.”

Snape’s voice was deadly serious. “With nuts?”

The Ravenclaw brightened a little as he searched through the box. “Yes, here. This one.”

In spite of himself, Snape took it.

Lockhart happily watched him as he chewed. Then the blonde joined him, plucking little chocolates from the box and plopping them greedily into his mouth. Neither of them had been able to eat lunch, so they sat there, a pair of boys silently eating away at a box of chocolates and ignoring the sounds of owls and yelling down the corridor.

After Snape’s third chocolate, he looked over and noticed how Lockhart had some stray chocolate on the corner of his lips, and Snape wondered what it would be like to wipe it.

Before his brain could catch up with his body, Snape reached out and touched Lockhart’s mouth. He wiped away the chocolate with his thumb and quickly withdrew his hand.

“You’re a slob,” Snape crossly explained.

Lockhart seemed embarrassed. He blushed — _oh_ — and opened his mouth.

“Mister Lockhart!” came McGonagall’s outraged cry from around the corner. “Come back here right now and clean this up, then go change back into your uniform!”

Lockhart looked petrified. He was going to be in deep shit, literally.

“One of your admirers is looking for you,” said Snape.

Lockhart pulled a sulky face and shoved the rest of the chocolates into Snape’s hands. “I’ll see you later, then, at next week’s club meeting?”

“If you aren’t still busy cleaning.”

McGonagall appeared at the end of the corridor. Her black witch’s hat had white droppings all over it. Her fiery gaze instantly locked with Lockhart’s, and Lockhart jumped up and scuttled over to her. While Snape couldn’t quite hear what she was saying, he was sure that she was giving Lockhart a well-deserved tongue-lashing.

Alone now, Snape put aside the chocolates and pulled out his crumpled letter. He carefully opened it and ran his eyes over its contents.

_Love, Lily_

As much as he reread it, he couldn’t imagine her writing those words.

He read it over and over — hoping that he could mentally will himself into believing that she truly wrote those words for him, that she truly felt that way towards him — over and over until the writing on the card blurred.

 _Love, Lockhart_ , it suddenly read.

As much as he was doubting his sanity, the words suddenly made sense. They suddenly felt real.

“All further Valentine’s Day activities are cancelled!” bellowed McGonagall, followed by a wail from Lockhart.

Even after the two of them disappeared from sight, Snape and everyone else could hear McGonagall’s final declaration:

“Fifty points from Ravenclaw!”

Maybe Valentine’s Day wasn’t so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a lot longer and more eventful than I thought, but I'm glad it's done. I worked on it every day for the past month asdjlkdsdsg. Hopefully Chapter 4 can come sometime later next month, but I'll be getting back to schoolwork and grad school applications.
> 
> Thank you for continuing to read this! Kudos and comments are super appreciated. As always, feel free to yell at me about these boys on Tumblr @plvtarch.
> 
> Also! Shout out to [this beautiful drawing](https://spectrum-spectre.tumblr.com/post/628511149338624000/5th-year-gilderoy-lockhart-thinking-about-himself) of young Lockhart by @spectrum-spectre inspired by this fic!


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